


Violations and Consequences

by Hoodoo



Series: Orcish Inamorato [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Orcs - Fandom, Original Work, exophilia - Fandom, tetarophilia - Fandom
Genre: Ambush, Assistance, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Violence, Bruises, Care, Death, Elder Scrolls Lore, Explicit Language, F/M, Folklore, Gen, Gods, Honor Blades, Hunting, Knives, Memories, Minor Skyrim references, Orcish traditions, Pain, Promises of revenge, Rage, Realization, Rescue, Self-Defense, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Tributes, Victory, bandits, domestic life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-07-23 17:41:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20012260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: You've settled into a fine life with your Orc partner. That doesn't mean everyone thinks it's a good thing.





	1. Chapter 1

It was going to be a hot day. You wished you could wear just a thin cotton shift, but you had to drive the goats to the pasture where the young shepherd tended the flock, so you knew you needed to cover your dress with an apron with pockets. Being prepared to collect plants was better than finding something you needed and not being able to carry it!

You had to finish up and go. It only took another few minutes to finish milking, then carrying the bucket to the small cave you’d excavated near the stream, to keep it cool. You could strain it when you returned.

Grar was gone; he’d left two days before to visit the smaller hamlets and farms that dotted the countryside, offering leather for sale. He’d learned that farmers were too busy with their crops and livestock to make high quality leather, and visited them sporadically throughout the year to supply them with it. Sometimes he bartered goods for payment, sometimes he received a few coins. 

You found your thinnest apron to wear, slipped it over your dress, and returned to the goats. The does were amicable; they knew their routine. The kids jumped and explored but followed their mothers, and you herded them away from the cabin, towards the pasture.

The trip wasn’t exceedingly long, especially if you followed the deer trails through the woods. The goats stayed together in a loose group; the fey’s blessing lingered after your bawdy tryst in the fairy meadow. Thinking back on it brought a smile to your face. The night before he'd left you’d jokingly told your husband not to visit the place again without you! He’d replied that it wouldn’t be wise to return at all; the Seelie Court was fickle and what was pleasurable one time may not be the next. You teased that Midsumer’s Night would probably be auspicious, that maybe the hulder would remember him--he told you that he was sure the satyrs would be eager to see you again too, because just like him they wouldn’t have gotten enough of you, and you could never get enough either--

You’d laughed at that and flipped him over onto his back so you could straddle him, and afterward, sweaty and panting for breath Grar chuckled you proved his point. 

Stepping carefully over downed tree limbs, your thoughts meandered as you continued hiking. The goats nibbled here and there but moved ahead of you. 

Not all your thoughts were memories. Thinking of the future, once you had actual hard cheeses, they could be sold to farmers and villagers too. Soft fresh cheese made simply and in the house was common; aged was not. Plus you could create a few tinctures and salves, which were always welcome when no goodwife was available. You could travel with Grar when he went to sell, it might be nice to see some of the people in your village again--

One of the goats stopped. You bumped into her, both because you weren’t paying much attention and to get her moving again. She flicked an ear back at you, then focused again on something in the trees. You tried to determine what exactly she was looking at, but who knew what goats thought?

After a moment, the doe continued on.

It had probably been a deer. Or a fox; you saw them occasionally and although it was tempting, you never followed them. You wondered if the old folktales were true: that foxes would lead you to treasure. You would ask Grar about it later, to see if the same story was told in Orc Strongholds--

\--somebody grabbed you.

Startled, you yelped and automatically kicked. The heavy hand pinching your shoulder didn’t relax, and you tried to twist out of the grip. It didn’t work. The next second you were caught up against worn leather armor and held tightly against someone who smelled as if they hadn’t bathed in a while. A hand clamped over your mouth and nose.

“What’ve we got here?” a man’s voice whispered into your ear. “A tasty little tart all by ‘erself in the deep dark woods?”

Another man appeared in front of you. He looked rugged, like he’d been living outdoors for a while. He had an odd mix of mismatched armor: most of it was leather, but he also had fur gauntlets with the unmistakable blue of the Rebellion stitched into them, and glass boots. Your wide eyes took all of this in in an instant, and he grinned.

“You like what you see?” he said, opening his arms as if what he was wearing was of vital importance at the moment. “With a Rebellion going on, it’s easy to kill whoever and take whatever. The other side gets blamed!”

It was plainly obvious these men were bandits. And now they’d caught you, and--

“What a sweet surprise!” the one in front of you continued. “Here we were, thinking there wasn’t any fun to have around here, and now we have you!”

The man holding you sniffed your hair. You yelped again and twisted in another attempt to break his grip. Once again it didn’t work. 

“She’s feisty!”

“Smells like Orc,” the other announced. 

A look of comprehension lit the eyes of the bandit looking over you, and a wider, more feral grin broke across face. The expression managed to frighten you even more.

“You’re the slut I heard about shacked up with the bull Orc!” he said eagerly, with too much glee. “Oh, this better than I could imagine!”

“Fuckin’ _Orcs,”_ the one behind you spit.

Suddenly you couldn’t breathe. The man holding you captive hadn’t tightened his grip; you simply couldn’t draw air into your lungs. Your heart pounded too loudly in your chest, you felt like you were going to be sick. These men were going to do you harm. They weren’t just going to rob you or beat you. It would be worse than that. You could sense it.

“You must never had a man fuck you. We change that, and you’ll never want to lay with a filthy animal like that tusk-face again. We’ll fix you.”

Your fear confirmed. It felt like your entire body went cold. 

The one in front reached for you, for your chest, and you panicked. You flailed, kicking out, writhing, anything to get free. Although a dirty hand was still over your mouth, you screamed, and when it was too muffled, screamed again from your throat. You tried to bite the palm clamped there; it didn’t work. You did managed to land a kick on the man’s knee, which made it buckle. 

He cursed and his grip automatically loosened. You continued to struggle to get away from him, and made to dodge the one crowding you from the front, but your hair was snagged and your head yanked back. 

The pull made you lose your balance and you fell, hard, backwards. You landed tangled in the first bandit’s legs, while the other leered over you. Your shoulders were grabbed and forced down, pinning you in place. Crouching, the second man shoved his hand up your skirt, between your legs. 

Everything snapped into painful clarity. You could almost count the number of hairs in his stubble. There was a redbird on a branch in the tree to your left. The goats still lingered, nervous and unsure but tethered by fairy magic. One of the older kids sniffed the man before you and butted him playfully, as he would to you if you were crouched over while you worked in your garden; the bandit didn’t turn but grabbed the kid and shoved it away, hard. 

The goats finally scattered.

You were stupid not to carry your knife. Grar always told you to have your blade! You teased that he was over protective and you weren’t afraid. But usually you took it, to make him feel better. Today, though, in the rush to leave, you hadn’t spared it a passing thought, and now you had no protection at all, and you didn’t know if you were going to make it back home, and why didn’t you listen to your husband, and why and why--

Your terror didn’t paralyze you. You still fought and screamed. The men thought it was amusing, laughing at your struggles. One told you he liked a little fight in a woman; it made it better when he broke them. The other told him to hurry up. Although things had been overly clear at first, the edges began becoming soft, like you were drifting away.

The man between your legs tore at your thin cotton undergarment, succeeding in pulling it away. The one holding you grabbed your chin and forced your head backward to look at him. Tears filled your eyes as you reached to grab his wrist so you could move your head.

Your fingers brushed the leather sheath held by a cord around your neck. 

The tiny honor blade Grar had given you, when he stated his intention of being your husband! He’d told you it was customary for the betrothed or wife of an Orc to always wear it, so you’d done so. You never even removed it when you were with him or when you bathed. It was such a constant you hardly even thought about it any more.

Quickly, not quite sure how you did it or how the men didn’t notice, you fumbled the blade from its sheath. It had no handle, just a thicker ridge, opposite the blade, for a grip. You’d never used it, but it felt right in your hand and you knew it was for slicing indiscriminately, for defense. 

The bandit in front of you kneeled, working the front of his pants to loosen them, continuing to tell you how he’d fuck the affection you had for the bull Orc right out of you.

Gritting your teeth, you squeezed your eyes shut to force the tears out, then roared and in desperation, yanked yourself upright and slashed at his face.

For a second, everything froze. A look of surprise etched the man’s features. Your hand shook.

Then, like it was magic, you watched a wound open up from the corner of his left eye, down his cheek, to his lips. It was thin but wicked; blood spilled from it in a solid sheet. His front and your legs were instantly coated in red. He shrieked and held his face as if he was afraid it would slough off, and fell backwards, away from you. 

The man behind you growled, “Bitch!” and grabbed you again to force you back down.

With the small act of defense you’d just managed giving you renewed strength, you struggled fiercely again. You tried to cut at him as he wrestled you back down. You knew you’d never win in a fight against him; he was too strong but you had to try, and maybe your knife would help against him too--

Out of nowhere a hulking silhouette eclipsed the sky above you both.

 _tbc_ . . .


	2. Chapter 2

“Worthless swine!” a thick voice hissed.

Before either of you could react, a heavy warhammer made solid contact with the man’s temple, crushing it with a dull wet sound. The blow was so hard his body followed as his head lolled, flopping him to his side. Tangled as you were in his limbs, you were thrown sideways too.

“And _you,_ filth--”

But before the insult and threat was completed, the bandit you’d lacerated scrambled to his feet and crashed away through the undergrowth.

Instead of chasing the bandit, your savior took you upper arm and you were hauled to your feet.

“Volesh!” you cried in a gasp. 

Being thinner than her brother didn’t make her less solid or intimidating. Grar’s sister stood like a rock, holding you steady as your knees threatened to give out. With one hand you found a grip in the chestplate of the armor she wore. The other still gripped your knife, and she held your wrist to keep it away from her. The tall female Orc watched where the bandit had run off for a moment with a scowl on her face, then turned her attention to you. 

“Are you injured?”

“N-no,” you replied, sniffling a little. Now that you were safe, your tears returned unbidden.

The Orc ignored your weak human emotion, and kept an arm around you. 

“Ghath!” she called.

Silently, her son appeared at your side. The boy was barely double digits and his tusks were just starting to show but he was as tall as a grown human and muscular. Although nowhere near the bulk he’d gain when he was an adult, he’d match many human men in strength already.

“Mother?” he asked quietly. 

“Collect the goats while I attend to your aunt.”

You were sure he would much rather chase down the man who attacked you, but he didn’t complain. Immediately he went off to fetch the livestock.

Volesh took your shoulders and looked you over. “You are sure you are uninjured, sister? You are covered in blood.”

“It isn’t mine. I cut him. With this.” You opened your hand to show her your knife. 

Her dark eyes widened and a small smile formed around her tusks. 

“That’s good,” she praised, but didn’t explain the cryptic response. She told you to wipe the blade clean on the ground and return it to its sheath around your neck.

You complied even as you insisted your weren’t hurt; she demanded to check you over. You hadn’t realized your skirt had been torn, and your undergarment was ruined beyond repair. The Orc found blood in your hair from a wound on the back of your head, where you’d hit the ground. You were bruised in various places: your upper arm, your shoulder, and a few that were darkening on your inner thighs where the men’s grip had been too tight. You barely felt them, but Volesh wisely told you from experience that you would be stiff and sore tomorrow.

You assured her that you had willow bark and other medicinal plants to ease the discomfort.

“You and your alchemy,” she replied, with a shake of her head. 

You wouldn’t think to call yourself an alchemist, but she told you her brother should consider supplying you with an alchemy lab, so you could truly create potions. That was neither here nor there at the moment, however. You asked how she and Ghath came by you.

“We knew Grar was traveling. I have finished some of the items you’d requested from the forge, so we thought it was a good time to visit.”

“It was good timing!” 

Volesh told you that she’d planned on coming alone, but Ghath wanted to see his Blood-Kin, adding that the boy was fond of you. You knew that, even if he was sometimes shy around you. As if talking about him summoned him, your nephew returned, driving your small herd of goats in front of him.

He carried one kid. 

“This one has died,” he said quietly.

It was the kid that had approached the bandit, and had been shoved away. He must have used enough angry force to break its neck. You sighed and ran your hand over its side, sadly. The brown and white kid was the first to have been born from your tiny herd.

It was upsetting, but there was nothing to be done. 

“He was a wether,” you said. “He was going to be sold or butchered anyway. It just would have been when he was older. We can take him back to the cabin and have an evening meal.”

Ghath offered to carry him for the trek back to your cabin. You nodded. For a moment you considered continuing on to the pasture where the shepherd would be waiting for you, but you were starting to feel the beginnings of aches and pains. The goats would have to forage near the cabin today.

As the three of you--plus the goats, who didn’t seem put out they weren’t headed to the pasture--trekked back to your cabin, you asked how they’d found you.

“We heard your scream. Your trail was easy to follow; Ghath saw the faint deer trail and goat spoor, so we ran to you.”

“You’re becoming an excellent tracker,” you commended your nephew. “You’ll surpass Grar’s skills soon, I bet.”

The Orc boy blushed and pushed his hand through his hair to keep it off his face; he wasn’t yet old enough to wear it braided like an adult. He mumbled something about wanting to be a hunter like his uncle. His mother didn’t reply, but you’d learned to read subtle Orcish expressions and she wasn’t entirely pleased with that life goal. 

Instead of continuing to talk about it, you changed the subject, asking how they managed to arrive at the cabin so efficiently. The Stronghold that was their home was several days hard travel.

“We have horses!” Ghath exclaimed. 

That surprised you. Orcs didn’t typically keep horses because the standard equine was hardy but too small for them to ride comfortably. 

“I was shoeing for a stablemaster and they had two coldbloods that were too large for men to ride,” Volesh explained more completely. “They’d been trained for cavalry, but an oversized horse isn’t ideal. Too big a target. He offered them to me at no cost, just to get him out of his stable, so I earned my coins and two beasts as well!”

With that explanation Ghath launched into telling you how saddles made for men weren’t fit for Orcs--although, he admitted, he could use them just fine for now--and he and his mother had to learn to ride, and how his father was both pleased and dismayed at horses in the Stronghold--

Volesh shushed him. You knew it was for sharing personal information about a Chieftain, even if he wasn’t within earshot. It was understandable why horses would be both a blessing and a curse: they could help with travel or breaking grounds for crops, but their upkeep wasn’t quite as easy as other livestock. You supposed the Chieftain also weighed Orcish traditions versus modern sensibility; he seemed to be a little more progressive than other Clans may think appropriate. 

Even after being shushed Ghath had continued on about how he’d learned to make leather halters and bridles and he was in the process of creating a harness. His next big project was a saddle large enough for an adult Orc that was still appropriate for the horse--

Volesh gave him a light slap on the back of his head as he rambled on. The boy took it for the affectionate tap it was and grinned for a moment before finally stopping his chatter. You were closer to home now, the cabin just visible through the trees, and he hurried ahead of the two of you. 

You would have picked up the pace too, but the aches you hadn’t felt initially were finally catching up. Your sister-in-law stayed by your side, and in the few minutes of privacy you had you heard her thoughts that the boy didn’t have the fortitude to become Chieftain, that he had a temperament more like his uncle’s and maybe he would end up living outside the Stronghold too.

You heard the uncharacteristic worry in her voice, and reminded her that Grar did well for himself. And with her teaching Ghath forging plus what seemed like a natural affinity towards horses, your nephew could find work as a smith anywhere in the Holds. Good blacksmiths were always in demand. 

She sighed and reluctantly agreed. 

Finally back at the clearing with your cabin, the goats wandered to the stream to drink. Ghath introduced you to the horses. They were incredibly tall, much more than the typical stocky breeds, with thick necks and legs like tree trunks, but they were gentle. The boy picked up their large feet and brushed back the feathering that covered the lower part of their legs to show you the shoes he’d helped hammer out and nail to their hooves. 

He also showed you the rivets he’d put in their halters, and told you how they’d arrived dusty and with patches of their winter coats that he’d brushed out until they were sleek, and he’d untangled their tails and shaved their manes and how he’d been measuring to get the proper sizes for the harnesses--

Ghath may have continued for a long time if Volesh didn’t remind him that you needed to clean up from the attack in the woods. Sheepishly, her son apologized. You hadn’t minded; it was nice to hear his enthusiasm even if it was boyish, but she was right. 

With an increasing limp, you took a clean dress from the cabin and slowly made your way downhill a bit further to the pool Grar had created with a dam. The goats were further downstream. You stripped out of your apron and found it wasn’t easy to pull your dress off over your head; your muscles were tightening and made it painful to stretch. Still, you forced your way out of the fabric and stepped carefully into the pool.

For a moment the water swirled a brownish red before the color was carried downstream. You hadn’t realized how sweaty and dirty you’d gotten, nor how blood had caked into your hair as you watched the dirt float away. The bruises made themselves more known as you dipped yourself lower.

Gingerly you washed yourself of the grime with the soap and rags that had been squirreled away in a cache of rocks nearby. It seemed odd to be bathing midmorning.

Unbidden, the events of the morning flashed through your mind’s eye and suddenly you were crying. You were so reckless to not be paying attention to your surroundings; you were so careless to leave your dagger home after all the times Grar had told you not to! You were lucky be only mildly injured! Through your sobs you praised the Nine Divines for watching over you and promised a tribute to Stendarr, the God of Mercy and Luck, especially.

Calming gradually, you splashed water on your face. A tiny bubble of anger popped in you, and you finished your prayers with a word of thanks to Malacath. He wasn’t your god, but guided your husband and his people, so it was only appropriate to acknowledge him as well. If Volesh and Ghath hadn’t felt compelled to visit, you wouldn’t be here at this very moment.

Finally, having dawdled enough and worn yourself out with crying and anger, you exited the pool. You dried yourself with your apron--you knew it would be useful today!--and pulled the fresh dress over your head. The other’s skirt was too torn and bloody to salvage much except for rags. Gathering it into a bundle, you made your way back to the clearing.

In your cabin, you quickly swallowed the herbs and a tincture that would help with the soreness that was growing inevitably stronger, then you went back outside.

Your Blood-kin had skinned and cleaned the kid. Because you weren’t sure what Grar may want to do with the hide, you told them to leave it hanging. Volesh brought out and showed you the new spit she’d created at her forge. This wasn’t the first way you intended to use it, but she and her son built a fire in the outside pit and set the wrought iron spit over it. You helped by having bowls of salt and pepper available and mashing garlic and rosemary to form a paste to flavor the meat. 

Once the fire had been banked down to coals, the meat was seasoned. Even though the sun beat down overhead Ghath sat by the fire, tending it. You and Volesh nestled potatoes and root vegetables into the cooler coals to bake. You still had to strain the milk you’d collected this morning and you’d wanted to harvest the early peas from the garden, but all of the sudden you were too exhausted to stand, 

Volesh told you to go to bed. You tried to argue; it was lazy to take to bed in the early afternoon!

The Orc scowled at your stubbornness and reminded you that you’d been attacked several hours earlier. Would you allow anyone seeking your help, after going through what you did this very morning, to continue to work? Or would you tell them that rest was needed, for the body to heal?

You scowled back at her because her words were true. Your nephew laughed and remarked that if your skin wasn’t so pale you’d make a good Orc with an expression like that.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the observation, adding that you’d learned from the best, which made even his mother chuckle. 

Finally, though, you couldn’t argue and went into the cabin to lay down. Volesh followed, and with your instruction created a poultice of daisies and tallow. As often as she made a withering comment about your ‘alchemy’, she knew the benefit of it. She helped spread the paste on your bruises and bound them with clean strips of cloth, then left the cabin, leaving you alone. 

_tbc . . ._


	3. Chapter 3

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. It was dark inside, and warm. Only a little wind made it through the opened windows, making the very air sluggish. You felt sluggish too, from the dull ache in your limbs and the medicine you’d taken. You’d intended to just lay quietly and rest, but the next thing you knew, the cabin shook with the force of the heavy oak door slamming open. It startled you awake.

The shape in the doorframe was familiar, even through your grogginess. 

“Grar!” you said. “You weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow!”

In a rush your husband was at your side. You pushed yourself up, to meet him, but fell back with a whimper of pain. The poultices had dried to crusty patches, and while they had helped, you still had deep soreness in your muscles. 

He caught you and eased you back to the mattress, while he sunk to his knees beside the bed. 

“I come home to find my sister and her boy outside, and they tell me you were _attacked!”_ he roared. 

His rage was so great he shook. It was obvious he had only heard the bare basics of what happened to you and rushed into the cabin. Mightily you tried to sit up again, and this time succeeded. You took his shoulders to calm him down. It didn’t work. Your husband’s voice was pure fury as he continued,

“Beaten and bruised, I was told--did they defile you?! Are you seriously wounded?”

“Grar. Grar! Stop! Listen!” you exclaimed.

“Did they target you because of me?”

You shook your head. “No! I don’t think so. They seemed to know a rumor of us, they knew we lived together and they called me the slut with the bull Orc--”

His face twisted into a terrifying snarl and he spit, _“Fucking curs--”_

Answering his questions didn’t work to calm him down. Holding his shoulders didn’t work. You took his jaw in both hands to force him to look at you. 

“Grar! I’m fine! I’m _fine!”_

He panted a moment, his eyes as black as his temper. The very air around him seemed to tremble; his aura was dark and dangerous, fueled by wrath. You wiped the off thin veneer of drool that collected on his lip and pressed your forehead to his. At the sign of affection he actually took a breath and relaxed a tiny bit.

“Golgarza--” he muttered.

You kissed him lightly, on the mouth, something that never failed to surprise him or make him smile. His smile this time, however, was not as wide as typical.

“I’m fine. I’m bruised and sore, that’s all. I don’t think being a slugabed has helped!” you said, trying to joke as you struggled to get up.

Grar’s tone shifted, and now you heard the fear buried in his anger. “You should rest! You’re sure you’ve no broken bones? Do you need fresh poultices?”

“I’m all right,” you insisted, and continued despite his insistence to get out of bed. “There are no broken bones. I will make new poultices later--right now I just want to wash these dried ones off. And we have guests! We need to attend to them.”

The trivial concern that you’d had a difficult morning was nothing compared to not showing proper attention to guests. If it’d been you alone, your sister-in-law and nephew may have overlooked a slight variance from what would be typical, since you were not only human, but injured, but now that Grar had returned home unexpectedly early, there were Orcish customs and expectations to uphold. 

Grar ground his teeth, and you knew he was still seething, but he assisted you getting up and moving towards the door Still, he couldn’t help but continue, “I should be going after those pricks instead of--”

“Instead of what, brother?” Volesh called from a seat by the fire pit. 

Grar still abided the traditions he’d been brought up with: Guests were to be shown the greatest courtesy and a meal provided, especially if they traveled far. He wisely held his tongue.

Volesh grinned at her brother’s struggle between his desire to find the men who dared lay hands on you, and his need to be an honorable host. “There were two bandits, brother, but only one who needs to pay a blood price.”

She offered you the chair she’d been using, like you were an invalid. Still, you took it. 

“One is dead?” Grar asked.

“By my warhammer,” she replied without bragging. “And the other . . . he can’t escape, no matter how far he runs.”

You had no clue what she meant. Grar stared hard at his sister, his brow furrowed. She waited a long moment, just to be contrary, before continuing, 

“Your wife defended herself with her honor blade. He’d been well marked across the face.”

Instantly the hard expression on his face melted away. Grar bellowed in laughter. It wasn’t pleasant laughter, like you might share with him in bed, but one full of steely delight that promised pain and suffering. It surprised you; your husband was an Orc, yes, but he chose a life outside a Stronghold for less constraints on his actions and the opportunity to do more than be a miner, work a forge, or be a warrior. He chose to live here, on this mountain, to hunt and to make a living that way. He chose you. He chose so much different than he could have ever had the freedom to do behind fortified walls.

But the way he laughed at hearing you’d wounded the man with the tiny honor blade, the way his eyes and tusks flashed, the way his hand became a tight fist--he looked like a full, ready to rage and destroy Orc berserker. You’d never seen him in such a state.

Volesh laughed too, as did Ghath. 

“You’re a hunter. Shall we go hunting tonight, brother?” she asked. 

The expression on his face was deadly fierce. “Yes, sister. Tonight.”

_tbc . . ._


	4. Chapter 4

The explanation of what all of all they meant didn’t occur until the meal was served. Grar had taken you back to the pool and after removing the crusty bandaging, you washed again. Already the bruises were wine-colored, although you had less pain than if you hadn’t had any medicine. 

Your husband’s face was deeply lined from the frown etched on it, seeing what the men had done to you.

“I should have bought some healing potions. I was near enough a town and had enough coin to get one--”

“I’ll be fine,” you interrupted, but your assurance held less weight as he saw how overly careful you were, drying yourself off. “We need the money for other things! Why are you back so early?”

Your attempt to redirect the conversation only worked a little. 

“I didn’t need to travel extensively. I sold the leather at the first two farms I went to,” Grar replied. He stepped closer to you and you saw his eyes fixated on the dark bruise near your wrist. You wanted to duck your head, but quietly he asked to see your chin. His fingers brushed a sore spot along your jawline, and he glowered again. In the same soft voice he said, “You should have protection. Those men could’ve--”

You didn’t need him to finish the sentence; you already knew. You caught his hand. “You can’t be with me all the time, Grar. That just isn’t practical.”

He nodded, reluctantly. “I know. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have protection. We could buy an alchemy table, and you could mix better things than simple tinctures. You could get training in wards and learn some novice spells--”

“What, become a mage?” you broke in.

“You’d have to go and study at the College of Winterhold to become a mage.”

A flash of sudden minor panic hit you. “I don’t want to study for years at a College!”

“I don’t want that either, golgarza,” he sighed. “I want you here, with me. But I also want you safe. Creating healing potions and poisons and learning some conjuration might be helpful. Don’t you think?”

You had to agree. You told him you didn’t know where the money to pay for an alchemy lab or training would come from; Grar shushed you and said that was a worry for the future. He reminded you that guests were waiting, and together you walked back to the clearing.

During the meal of roasted goat, vegetables and ale that your Blood-kin brought, Volesh teased her brother that he’d have kept his temper if he’d just listened to the story before rushing to your side and interrupting your rest. 

Grar growled that his reaction was fitting, when he was simply told minor information about what happened to you. As harsh as it sounded, you’d grown accustomed to how Orcs talked to each other--lots of bluster between kin--and it didn’t alarm you. Topics relating to the Stronghold replaced it as Volesh informed Grar of news since the last time he’d been there. Ghath, when it was appropriate for him to speak, occasionally added to the conversation too.

When it was just passed dusk and the final part of the meal--berries and cream that you finally skimmed from the top of the milk you’d gotten in the morning, drizzled with the rare treat of honey--had ended, Grar and Volesh exchanged an anticipatory look.

You’d never seen it before, but knew what it meant. 

Time to hunt. 

Ghath had seen it too, of course, but he didn’t seem to share the same trepidation that left your mouth sour. The boy grinned, then wiped his face clear of the excitement to match the solemnness of his uncle. His mother, however, had a look of fierce glee too, and didn’t mind who knew it. 

The two adult Orcs stood and stretched and began planning quietly. As you collected the wooden plates and utensils to wash them, you overheard, “You do still have armor, right, brother?” and “No bows, I want to see his face as he pays his blood price.”

Finally you couldn’t stand their secrecy, nor hold your tongue. “How will you track him? He ran off, and now it’s night!”

The flames from the fire pit made Volesh’s eyes and tusks flash as she scowled at your interrupting ignorance, but Grar came to your side. 

“The bastard’s been marked,” he said to you quietly, stepping close enough to take you into his arms. With a fingertip he touched the leather sheath that held the tiny knife, still hanging around your neck.. 

You shook your head as you shrugged. “I cut his face. Lots of men have scars on their face! It was such a shallow wound it’s probably already closed, no longer bleeding, and he may have had a healing potion! It’ll be gone if he drank one!”

Your husband smiled a little at you. “That doesn’t matter, my golgarza. You marked him with an honor blade, and the magic etched into it is in him now too. May I see it?”

Confused, you pulled the knife out and offered it to him. He refused to take it, telling you that it was yours, that no one else should hold it. 

“Cut me with it,” he said.

“What? No!”

Grar held his palm up and open as an invitation for his request. 

You still protested. “No! Grar--”

“A small cut. It will heal quickly, as you said. Trust me.”

At his insistence, at his calm demand, at his word because you did trust him, you complied. Not on his hand--you chided that that would hurt too much and may affect his grip--but on his forearm where the pain would be less and have no bearing on holding a weapon or a tool.

Grar dropped his forehead to yours and presented his forearm instead. 

Very carefully, with reservations, you did as he asked. You sliced at his arm but did it gently, without the force you’d desperately used during your attack that morning. As little pressure as you’d used, it still easily opened his skin in a thin line, which spilled blood immediately. The wound wasn’t long or deep, but Grar’s reaction was still to tense and hiss lightly at the pain.

You pulled the knife back immediately. Instead of putting his opposite hand on the wound or wiping away the blood, Grar held it steady and told you to watch.

In confusion, you did. In seconds a thin, wavery blue light drifted upward from the laceration. He moved his arm gently from side to side, and the light swirled like smoke but didn’t dissipate into the ether. It remained attached to him, or more appeared; you couldn’t tell exactly which. Either way, it wafted near his arm, essentially branding him. 

“This is what you meant when you said I marked him!” you exclaimed. 

“Yes.”

“Yes, sister,” Volesh said at the same time. She continued where Grar did not. “Honor blades are a woman’s weapon, to protect herself from unwanted advances. After they’re imbued with power, even another person simply touching them dusts them with the magic. The taint can be difficult to see in bright daylight, but it’s there. Night makes it easier to see. Makes tracking easier. He can’t wash it off or extinguish the trail.”

For the first time, you noticed that she had a similar leather sheath tied around her neck. 

Grar cupped your chin, turning your attention back to him. He murmured quietly, for your ears only, “I’ve told you. Women invite advances and intimate touches. What honor is there in forcing women? The prize is much sweeter when it’s given freely. There is no glory in forcing yourself on a woman, and the men who do need put down like the rabid beasts they are.”

He pressed his forehead to yours again. 

Even with the explanation, you were worried. “What if he made it to a camp? What if he’s surrounded by a host of bandits and mercenaries--”

“You think any number of men are a match for two Orcs with retribution fueling them?” Volesh sneered. 

You shook your head, because that was what she wanted as an answer. Still--

“If he’s found a camp to crouch down in, any man there who sees the mark and knows what it is will either force him to leave, or leave themselves. Anyone who stays by him will find no mercy.”

It still chilled you, to think your husband and sister in law were hunting men who made their living robbing and murdering, but it was obvious you weren’t going to sway them. Ghath, who had not attempted to offer any additional comments to his mother and uncle’s explanation to you, asked quietly to go as well.

With no hesitation both adult Orcs told him no. He wasn’t old enough, he wasn’t blooded yet, he was just a pup! It hurt him, you could tell, by the swift frown that crossed his face and the clenching of his fists. He wanted to go; he wanted to help take revenge on the person who attacked his Blood-kin. It was his pride as an Orc. But he bore the rejection as stoically as he could. 

After several more minutes of strapping armor on, finding preferred weapons and talking minor strategy, they made to leave. 

Grar, dressed in heavy armor and looking more intimidating than typical, held a hand out to you. He hadn’t cleaned the shallow wound you’d given him, although it’d been covered by a gauntlet. A blue wisp of light from the injury was still faintly visible, trailing after him, if you squinted. You took his hand and stepped close.

“Be careful,” you told him, not caring if it sounded scared or weak in the eyes of an Orc.

“I will return to you,” he promised, as quietly as he’d spoken earlier. Then he paused, and said in a softer whisper, “If this goes poorly and anyone but Volesh and I come here, flee. You and Ghath take those monstrous horses and run.”

His orders struck ice into your heart. Through all the boasting, he knew there was a possibility of losing this fight, righteous anger or no. And if they did lose, men may find the clearing and finish the job started this morning when you were attacked. It was the cycle of revenge. You demanded fiercely that he be careful and kissed his jaw once, twice, and wiped away tears as he finally stepped away from you to walk to his sister’s side at the edge of the clearing. 

She didn’t make mention of anything you’d said or done. She simply slapped him hard on the shoulder, and laughed that she’d only come to deliver a spit to her sister, and now she was going on an honor hunt! She never expected such entertainment!

As Grar muttered something guttural about showing this man what damage a “bull Orc” could do in response, they both walked away. In only a few minutes they were out of the light thrown by the fire in the pit, and were lost to sight in the dark. 

You and Ghath stood silently for a moment, then you went back to work cleaning up after dinner. 

_tbc . . ._


	5. Chapter 5

After straighening near the fire pit, locking the goats in their separate pens for the night, and helping Ghath secure the horses near enough food and water but close to the cabin, for a moment you looked around the clearing and wondered how you were supposed to sleep tonight.

Then it suddenly dawned on you that you hadn’t upheld your promise of a tribute to Stendarr! Clucking your tongue at yourself, you went inside to collect the offerings. Ghath followed you.

The boy watched quietly as you gathered what you needed in a pocket created by your skirt, then silently followed you back outside. Your shrine wasn’t dedicated to one Divine in particular. It was just a flat piece of slate raised to knee height. You used it as you needed to, and tonight you set a broken, curved bit of mudcrab armor, two dried blue flowers and a purple flower, a small bee you’d found dead near the stream, and a drizzle of milk on the rock. You added a thin smear of honey too. 

Returning to the still hot coals in the firepit, you lit a feather and carried it back to the slate table. You knelt and dragged the smoldering feather in an intricate design over your offerings. Barely speaking you said your thanks to the God for looking over you today. You repeated it until the feather was burned away. Setting the charred remainder on the rock as well, you left the rest where it was.

Your nephew stood to your side, observing it all without interrupting. When you got to your feet again, however, he asked what god you prayed to.

You explained to him Stendarr, one of the Nine Divines. He was unfamiliar with them, of course, and had many other questions.

“Is what you offered specific to Sten-darr?”

“No. I choose what I think is appropriate for each Divine when I pray to them. Their acolytes, priests, and priestesses would tell you differently if you went to a temple, however. I’m sure they believe there are precise offerings to present to each of them. But I think the Divines see into our hearts, into our souls, and know my intentions are pure.”

“I’m sure he’ll like the honey.”

You flashed him a grin and agreed. Although used more frequently than sugar, honey wasn’t that common. You’d found a honeybee hive earlier in the year and it had taken some ingenuity to retrieve some of the sweet treat. Ghath probably thought it a waste to smear it on a rock.

The boy didn’t say anything more about it. You figured he was taking the opportunity to ask questions that he would be shushed for if one of his Clan was around. His next query, however, surprised you.

“Did you and Grar get married in the eyes of these Divines?”

At that question, asked innocently, you couldn’t help but smile again. 

“We did,” you admitted. 

Of course the boy would only know of the Orcish rites you participated in during the Clan gathering. He had no reason to know you’d also persuaded Grar to agree to a short ceremony under Mara’s eye. A traveling priest from the Temple who came to your old village seemed delighted when you’d requested it. How his facial expression fell when you presented Grar as your groom! It made you laugh to think about it, because you weren’t sure who was more reluctant or felt out of place: the Orc or the man of the cloth!

So you’d had two wedding ceremonies, and were married under the eyes of two gods.

That reminded you that you wanted to send praises to Malacath as well. Cutting Ghath off before his next question of the Divines left his mouth, you told the boy you wanted to honor the Orc God tonight as well.

The Orc pup looked startled. “You want to worship the Orc-Father?”

“I want to pay him tribute. I’m less familiar with what may be appropriate, though. Will you help me?”

Ghath chewed his upper lip between his just-noticeable tusks. His eyes, like all Orc’s, were dark and in this lighting, unreadable. He shifted minutely from one foot to the next, demonstrating his discomfort. You, however, were determined and didn’t apologize or rescind your request. 

Finally he pushed the hair that had fallen into his face back behind his pointed ear as he nodded.

“Thank you! Do we need an altar? Is there a specific type of rock to use, or will slate do?”

“I don’t think it matters. The Orc-Father isn’t concerned with rocks.” 

The boy said it so seriously laughter bubbled in your throat. Wisely, you kept it contained behind your teeth. “All right,” you said instead. “If rocks aren’t important, how about plants? Or other things?”

Ghath thought about this for a moment. “I’ve never seen a permanent altar to the Orc-Father--”

“Then we’re off to a good start!”

“--but when someone calls on him, there’s always lavender,” he continued, ignoring your interruption.. 

“I have lavender. What else?”

Once again he bit his lip. He exuded an aura of mild distress, which told you more than ever he was still a youngling, no matter how much he had wanted to go with his mother and uncle. An adult Orc was expected to be confident, especially in front of others. Finally, when whatever internal war was too much for him to contain, he blurted out, 

“The Orc-Father doesn’t need accolades and petty tributes! He expects vengeance for wrongs, and blood to be spilled! He gives his blessings to Orcs who abide by his code, and turns his back on those who do not!”

His speech was so passionate you were taken aback for a moment. You’d learned a little about the Orc God, and what Ghath just told you was obviously something that weighed heavily on him. You thought about exactly what he was saying, then stepped closer to the boy who was as tall as you. You put a hand on his elbow and felt him tense. Casual touch was not common or encouraged in the Strongholds. Still, you weren’t in a Stronghold and you weren’t an Orc. You didn’t release him.

“Ghath, Grar and your mother are following Malacath’s tenets. Volesh protected me, like Malacath would protect his people, right? And they are hunting the other man. So there is no verging from his path there.”

He nodded, reluctantly. “But Grar left the Stronghold! He spurned a traditional life, and that only a Chief may have wives! He wed you!”

Ah. A vital component of the doubt he’d been struggling with.

“Yes. Yes he did.”

“And if that displeases the Orc-Father, he may not look kindly on the hunt and . . .”

You heard the words unsaid. “Ghath, I’m worried too. But Volesh lives a traditional life, and even if Grar doesn’t live in the Stronghold, he’s honorable. Maybe the Divines and Malacath manipulated us both to bring us together, for reasons beyond our understanding! We can’t dare to understand their workings.”

It wasn’t the most comforting of reassurances, but it was the best you could come up with. Ghath frowned as he digested your words.

“So I’m not an Orc,” you shrugged. “I didn’t convert your uncle. I didn’t make him turn away from his upbringing. I just want to offer something to Malacath, to laud him too, as my husband’s patron. I don’t believe that any god would look down on a tribute, given freely.”

You let your Blood-kin have time to think through all of that. You dropped your hand and stood silently beside him, and finally he looked up. The firelight caught his eyes as he lifted them. 

“Usually there is a skull. The Orc-Father likes bones, to show his triumphs, but skulls most of all,” he told you, agreeing to help without stating it. “Also armor or weapons from an enemy, or some artifact from a victory is presented too.”

“Hmm . . . let me think about that,” you mused, then told him you were going to gather sprigs of lavender you had stored inside the cabin.

When you returned, Ghath had cleared a small area of twigs and grasses down to the bare dirt. He’d leveled and smoothed it as best he could. Across from him was the head of the kid that had been killed by the bandit. He explained that it could double as the skull and although it wasn’t a normal victory token, it at least died during the struggle. You nodded. You handed him the lavender which he set at intervals in the dirt, all the flowers pointing inward. 

Even if he insisted he’d never seen a permanent altar to his God, Ghath seemed confident in his movement and placement of each piece of the offering. It was simple compared to what you knew of some of the Temples and altar displays for the Divines, but for a god that held honor and vengeance above all else, it was good. 

Before kneeling, you went back to the firepit and found a waterskin that had been left on the ground. It was light; there wasn’t much left in it. Ghath raised an eyebrow to you as you returned with it. 

“Orcs like ale, so Malacath would like ale too,” you explained. 

He had to concede that was probably true, and didn’t stop you from pouring some into the dirt in front of the goat’s head, in the center of the ring of lavender. You didn’t empty it; instead, you took a swallow from the bag and offered it to your nephew too, who repeated your action.

Then you both sat quietly for a moment. 

“I don’t know any ritual prayers to the Orc-Father,” Ghath admitted quietly. 

You nodded, with a slight shrug. Like you’d done at the altar for Stendarr, you murmured your gratitude half under your breath, and asked for Malacath to guide Grar and Volesh to victory. Ghath didn’t say anything that you heard.

After what felt like a proper amount of time to kneel, you got to your feet again. The boy stayed on his knees for a bit more, then joined you. You both left everything where it was, and retired to the cabin. 

You helped Ghath lay out his bed roll before settling into your mattress. It always felt too wide, like a sea, without Grar anchoring you. You had no way to know when he and Volesh might be back, and you made one more silent prayer to any god that might be listening to give them wings to return more quickly. 

In the dark, Ghath said, 

“I don’t think I want to live in the Stronghold either. I don’t want to fight my father to become Chieftain.” His voice was so soft some of the words barely made it to your ears, and you had the feeling if you said anything, he’d stop talking altogether. “I asked the Orc-Father for permission to live my own life, like my uncle. I asked him to understand that I would still honor him, but if I stayed in the Stronghold, I would never be permitted to take a wife. 

“I want a wife like you.”

You continued to hold your tongue, because you weren’t sure if his words were even meant to be answered. After a few more long moments, Ghath’s breathing steadied and slowed, and you knew he was asleep.

_tbc . . ._


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, you were up with the dawn, even if it took you several minutes to get out of bed. You’d forgotten to take any additional medicine before you laid down, and overnight your bruising had made you stiff. Ghath helped you up, and held you steady until your muscles loosened enough to walk without aid.

You ground up some willow bark and asked your nephew to fill the kettle at the stream. He obliged and you went back to the firepit to stir the coals. By the time he was back, the fire was going again. Setting the kettle in the coals to heat the water, you sat for a moment, soaking up the warmth from the fire. Ghath took care of his horses while you made yourself a cup of tea with the bark.

Walking over to your tiny altar with cup in hand, you saw that the milk and honey was gone. The flowers were in disarray, but you left them. You pocketed the mudcrab chitin and found the dead bee on the ground. You took it too. You wondered if the fey had helped themselves to the foodstuffs, thinking it was an offering to them, but more likely it was simply a scavenger.

Wandering to the patch of dirt Ghath had cleared for Malacath, you saw none of the lavender had been moved out of its decorative circle, but it was all that remained of your tributes. Your nephew came to your side.

“The skull is gone,” he said quietly. You heard a note of reverence in his voice. “That is a good omen! The Orc-Father was pleased with the respect we gave him, and took it.”

Silently you thought it was probably the work of another scavenger.

“My mother and Grar were blessed and the Orc-Father guided their vengeance,” Ghath continued, “I know it.”

You hoped it was so, but you wondered where they may be.

There wasn’t time to bask in worry. Morning chores still needed done. You directed the boy to start a stew from the leftover meat and vegetables while you dipped a ladleful of starter out of its bowl to put together a loaf of bread for the day. By the time you’d finished, the goats were restless and crying: the does needed milked, and the kids wanted out of their pens.

Washing your hands and grabbing a bucket, you went to the kid’s pen and tossed them some leftover vegetable scraps to nibble on while you released the does. One went to the stream to drink; the other stayed close so you tied her to a post and set the bucket under her to milk her. By the time the first wandered back, you were done, and repeated the process with her. 

The chore was automatic and the feeling of déjà vu slid over you as you rested your cheek on the goat’s back while you worked. The day before and its events felt like a year away, but like yesterday you’d have to hurry if you wanted to get the goats to the shepherd in time for pasture this morning--

Then Ghath stepped into your view to stir the pot of stew hung over the fire, and broke the soft illusion you’d done this before. 

You finished milking, then released both does as well as the kids. The younger goats frolicked in their freedom and the boldest sniffed at the horses, then bounded away when the horses sniffed back.

“Are you driving them through the woods this morning?” your nephew asked. 

You still didn’t know. They needed pastured; keeping them close to home in the clearing didn’t provide enough food. But it took some time to get them there and to get back. What if Grar and Volesh returned and you and Ghath were gone; what would they think? Would they assume the worst? And even if you’d be loathe to admit it aloud, you were scared to take the goats and go back through the woods. You’d have to pass the spot you were attacked, and the bandit’s body was still laying there, and--

One of the horses blew out its breath again, interrupting your internal debate. The brave kid skipped playfully, then stood statue-still. The sight of a gigantic horse and tiny goat standing in almost the same pose was unexpectedly funny.

“They’re back,” Ghath announced. 

If you’d been paying attention to the forest instead of the livestock, you’d have heard the approach. You shooed the less horse-curious, more interested in the bucket of milk kid away and spun to see your husband and Blood-kin tromp back into the clearing.

Ghath went to them, and you would have too, if you didn’t have a bucket full of liquid to contend with. Hurriedly you carried it to the cabin and hefted it onto a shelf where the kid wouldn’t get it, covered it with the first cloth you found--your apron from yesterday, still damp--and then hurried to greet the Orcs.

Both were dirty and blood splattered and looked tired, but elated. Grar caught you and lifted you face level with him to press his forehead to yours.

“That’s a marauder that won’t trouble anyone again!” he boasted, and drew his jaw down the side of your head, to your neck. 

You hugged him around his head and asked to be put down; his armor chaffed.

He guffawed and said he can’t have that before setting you back on your feet. 

Ghath had already started helping his mother out of her armor. You assisted Grar too, working free the buckles and ties at his sides, while the Orcs, as expected by their audience, recounted the story of the success. You knew it’d be told again when Volesh returned home, and become part of the wide net of tales repeated by the Clans. Even you were featured in the story of how Grar met you, when you managed to wound one of the men attacking him, and it occurred to you you’d be mentioned in this one too, striking your attacker with your honor blade. 

Before they washed they sat by the firepit and ate as they told of the hunt. The man had run, which you knew, just putting distance between the site he attacked you and the Orcs he realized would be searching for him. He’d made good progress, but the magic sliced into his face made trailing him simple. 

They’d found him holed up in a cave, by himself. Volesh provided the gory details with great delight, from the man’s futile attempt to bluster that he’d take them both down; to flanking him; to him offering them gold, gems, weapons, whatever they wanted; to him begging for mercy; to him pissing himself when it became apparent mercy wasn’t a word they knew; to the end of him. 

They’d left his broken body for the skeevers, bears, and wild canines to find and fight over, and his head on a stick outside the cave as a warning to other bandits. They did take what he offered when he’d had a tongue: a bag full of gold, two rubies and an emerald. 

In lieu of taking her share of the smaller treasure, Volesh took what armor and weapons were useful. She said the glass boots would fetch a decent price, and although a warhammer was her preferred weapon she’d always wanted an ebony blade, so she kept it for herself. He’d also carried a smaller ebony dagger, which she passed to her son.

“You need to become proficient with a traditional blade,” she told him, “but this will serve well in the future.”

Ghath took it with proper respect and held his mother’s eyes as he agreed.

Since it took them many miles to track the man down, they decided to rest for several hours during their hike back home. They also stripped and carried the body of the other man to a crevasse to dispose of it, after taking his gold and a single silver ring off him. Grar grudgingly admitted having horses would have made the whole journey quicker. 

The meal didn’t last as long as the dinner the previous night. You extended an invitation to your Blood-kin to say another day; it was declined with the excuse it was a long trip back to the Stronghold and now they had to stop to sell boots. Volesh also declined cleaning herself of the blood splattered across her chestplate and face. She said returning home in such a state would proclaim to the Clan there was a fight and a victory.

You knew she relished being the one to tell the tale.

With that she and Ghath readied their mounts. The boy was much more at ease on the beast, but Volesh did all right for someone who’d never had experiences with horses before. Grar clasped his sister’s forearm and thanked her for her assistance, both protecting you and hunting down the man who owed a blood price. You thanked her too, for everything she’d done.

Before they rode off, you broke off a piece of honeycomb just larger than a coin, slightly more than half of what was left. You wrapped it in greased paper and gave it to Ghath as a gift to show your gratitude for his help last night. He took it awkwardly, but smiled. 

“You’re spoiling the pup,” Grar said, but you shushed him and reminded him, for his ears only, how much he liked honey. 

Volesh and Ghath rode off. You watched until they disappeared down the hillside. 

“Let’s get you washed up,” you told your husband, taking his hand.

“Don’t the goats need to be driven to pasture?”

“They can forage and be fine one more day here. I want to help you wash, then you can rest the remainder of the day.”

“Sounds lazy.”

You nodded. “One day to rest. You were traveling, then you went who knows how many miles again last night. Just one day to relax.”

A very faint smile softened his face. “You’ll spoil me.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

Grar didn’t make you wait long before agreeing. You lead him by the hand to the pool, where you bathed him and heard more details of the story. You smiled as you re-braided his hair and let him talk. He took care of you, and you took care of him.

_fin._


End file.
